


To Burn

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, Community: sherlockkink, Drugged Sex, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-24
Updated: 2010-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes are bright. Watson blinks and tallies the signs. Bright eyes, blown pupils, rapid heart beat, inarticulateness, lack of focus, and, <i>oh</i>, and arousal… "Holmes," he breathes, appalled. "What have you taken?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this kink meme prompt: short version: Holmes takes an aphrodisiac and ends up fucking Watson, who would enjoy it but cannot handle the restraint. Next morning is awkward and painful and full of angst.

Watson tilts his head. He could have sworn he heard something, a sound, low, and there it is again, a groan, or a moan, possibly a sound of pain. He pokes his head out his door; "Holmes?" There is no one in sight, but Holmes' door is open. He steps into the smoke filled, recently tossed dimness, and spots Holmes half upright on the ridiculous tiger rug. "Holmes?" he says again, and is rewarded with another half bitten off cry. "Good grief Holmes, are you alright? What's happened? This time."

"Watson." He is close enough to watch Holmes lick his lips. "Watson," Holmes says again, like he is distracted by the word, and finally, stronger, "Watson. Get out of here."

Watson draws himself up, affronted. "Well, really, Holmes! You don't look or sound at all well, and while I probably should leave you to suffer, I _am_ a doctor, and - umpf!"

Watson is momentarily stunned; one moment he was lecturing Holmes, and the next he is on his back, breath knocked out of him by a sudden introduction to the floor, pinned down by a wild eyed Holmes. "What?" he gasps, and is silenced by the look Holmes focuses on him. He is caught in that gaze, and Holmes' voice sounds as though it is coming through cotton batting.

"I told you, I told, I said, go away Watson, I tried," Holmes is whispering, a string of syllables that don't seem to connect. He is watching Watson's lips, and his eyes are bright. His eyes are bright. Watson blinks and tallies the signs. Bright eyes, blown pupils, rapid heart beat, inarticulateness, lack of focus, and, _oh_, and arousal… "Holmes," he breathes, appalled. "What have you taken?"

His words only serve to settle Holmes' attention more firmly on his lips, and before he can react, Holmes is kissing him, slow and open, a leisurely exploration of lips and tongue, a cataloguing of parts, defining the roof of his mouth with the press of his tongue, numbering the teeth with a slow circuit, seating his bottom lip between upper lip and teeth and sucking. He can only concentrate on the slow slide of tongues, but something is wrong; Holmes tastes of anise and smoke and oranges, and something isn't right, and Watson pulls away with a gasp.

"Holmes," he says, interrupted with another biting kiss. "Holmes," he tries again, and finally gives in, speaking into Holmes' hungry mouth. "Holmes. Stop. You have, ah, you have to, to stop, _oh_, Holmes, you're not, uh, there's something you've, unmf, taken, please, listen," and Holmes is pulling at his shirt, is sliding his hands up, warm on his skin, and Watson's eyes close of their own accord. God, he's wanted this so _much_. "Holmes. We have, have to stop," and it's the last thing he wants to say, but he's the one with all of his mind present. "Stop," he pants, "stop. _Stop_."

Holmes is biting the words out of his mouth, is taking them whole from his lips, is refusing to let them become sound. He is moving above him, hips shifting against Watson's, and Watson cannot stop himself from blushing at the needy roll of Holmes' hips, pressing into his own erection, an increasingly desperate tempo; Holmes is hot even with four layers of clothing between them, and Holmes shudders, buries his teeth along the line of Watson's jaw and moans around the skin as he comes, spilling wet seed inside his pants, and Watson is both relieved and frustrated to think it is over.

Holmes pants against Watson's neck for several long moments before he shifts again, and Watson is stunned to realize that Holmes is still hard. Holmes is fumbling at his belt, and Watson reaches down to catch his hands, bites his lip against the sudden swell of desire, the overwhelming urge to flip Holmes over and take him, harsh and dirty and fast on the filthy rug, knowing that he won't stop Watson, knowing that he'll enjoy it. Holmes' hands aren't helping him to keep a leash on his desire. "Holmes, you have to stop, stop, please, stop. Holmes. Stop. Stop, listen, stop, you can't, you're not yourself…"

Holmes has caught Watson's hands instead, circles his wrists with unyielding hands, yanking them up, above his head. He shifts them to one hand and presses them to the rug, the other hand making quick work of his trousers; before Watson can gather himself for retaliation, Holmes is twisting off him, turning him over, and with a tug and the sound of ripping fabric, divesting him of trousers and underpants in one motion, turning him back over with another. Watson gasps at the feel of flesh on flesh as their cocks meet and cross, driving all thought from his mind, and scrabbles desperately at Holmes, his mouth still spilling a litany of pleas and commands to listen, to stop. His hands catch at the leg of a table, but still, he hesitates.

Holmes has no gentleness left; his kisses are hard and bruising, his hands iron bands around Watson's wrists, pining him down with hands and knees. Watson is twisting and writhing and fighting, and getting nowhere; one good hook and twist would have Holmes off him, but he doesn't make the move, knowing that some small part of him doesn't want to get away, uncertain if he despises himself more for wanting this, or letting it happen, or not trying harder. As Holmes plants a series of sucking bites along the base of his neck, trailing down his chest, something in him shudders under the weight of indecision, drags up old memories, old nightmares, sets them loose and paralyzes his ability to respond as he wishes too, replaces it with reactions he had thought he was past. A remnant of a voice in the back of his mind whispers _no_, dismayed at the rise of terror in him, but the past is pushing itself forward, tainting the present.

His breath is coming too fast now, and Holmes' hands are like another's, his mouth is turning into someone else's, someone's that he never loved, and his pleas are falling on the ears of the past. It is too similar, it is too much, and he is fighting with all he has now against his human restraints. Holmes is paying him no heed, but it is not Holmes above him anymore, it is a ghost, and the dead are no longer sleeping, and his eyes are seeing another time entirely when Holmes enters him, his way barely eased enough for possibility, much less safety; it is another prick tearing him apart, another weight holding him down, another place where he is violated and ruined and brought to tears.

When Holmes rolls off him at last, Watson is barely conscious. He is trapped in the past, among the dead men, among the corpses, and the body beneath his hands is one he'll never know who killed first – the enemy, the fever, or himself. He barely registers the hands on him, but they turn familiar again, rousing him, pulling him from memories; he repossesses his body in time to see Holmes before him, hard again, or still, before there is a prick on his tongue, sliding down his throat, gagging him, forcing tears from his eyes, and he has no fight left in him. He resigns from the battle, lets his mind cut loose, his body be used as Holmes wishes.

Despite everything he wishes, everything he hoped for, he cannot bring himself to care anymore, and as Holmes comes down his throat, salty, bitter come choking him, sliding out the corners of his mouth, and Holmes is still hard - as he gives himself over to be used, he thinks that he hates Holmes, and he hates himself, and he hates his past; but more than he hates any of those, he hates the drug. He hates it for taking something he has longed for, has dreamed of, and turned it to nightmare; he cannot even enjoy the last touch he will ever receive from Holmes, because Holmes is going to hate himself in the morning, and there is nothing Watson can do about it.

*

Watson wakes to sunlight and the taste of copper and linen in his mouth, to a silence that has less in common with the absence of sound than with the loss of words. There is a touch at his back, and he cannot stop the whole body flinch that accompanies it, cannot stop the groan torn from his throat at the movement of muscles sore and bruised; when he turns his head he discovers he has never hated his body more, because Holmes is staring at him, his eyes too wide, and his face too pale, and his breath coming too fast. Watson would give anything to go back ten seconds and lean into Holmes' touch instead, but it is done. Holmes is reaching one shaking hand to his face, only to snatch it back as he leans back, and why is his body refusing to behave? His mind and his heart and his body are at war with each other, mind being swayed by the evidence the body offers up, heart screaming at the way his body is destroying Holmes. He tries to turn over, to free an arm to reassure Holmes, but every movement is pain, the breath going out of him in a sound just shy of a scream.

Holmes makes an incoherent noise of his own, and scrambles away, half falling off the bed, backing away until he hits the wall, eyes still fixed on Watson. Watson forces himself up. "Holmes," he says, but it is a unintelligible rasp of sound and nothing more; Holmes goes positively green before he stumbles from the room. He hears the sound of retching, and sways on unsteady feet. He wants to go to Holmes, but doesn't trust himself to make it three steps without falling over, and in this state, he's not sure he'd make it up again. His cane is nowhere in sight; he gives in, and sits on the edge of the bed and listens to Holmes sick up in the next room.

He takes stock of his injuries, and has to admit he is probably quite a sight. He's covered, head to foot, with an impressionist landscape of bites and cuts and bruises. His leg has stiffened overnight, and he can barely bend the joint; his shoulder feels as though he has shattered it again, ligaments and muscles knotted into one giant fist. His arse is tender, the pressure of sitting painful, and he is not sure if the liquid sliding down his crease is blood or semen. His lips are swollen and raw, his left eye swollen almost shut, and with a tentative prod, he decides that his cheekbone may be fractured. He's rather astonished at how much damage Holmes managed to inflict, but half the marks can be laid at his own feet, a result of his struggling. The sounds of retching stop, and there is a long, long moment before he hears footsteps again.

Holmes appears in the doorway, and Watson winces; Holmes is not much prettier himself. Holmes isn't looking at him; he's watching the floor as though something fascinating is crawling across it. Watson licks his lips, tasting salt and blood, and tries again. "Holmes," he says, and Holmes' head snaps up to stare at him. Holmes' eyes are huge, and his hand is clenching on the doorframe. He is silent, stricken, and Watson feels his heart turn over at the expression on his face. He has to fix this. "Holmes," he says, again, and he wonders if it is the only word he knows anymore. He has to do better. "Don't, don't look so worried. It's superficial, mostly. I'm fine." Holmes snaps alive at that, his breath shooting from him like he's been punched in the gut, and when he speaks, his tone is raw and tight.

"_How_ can you say that? My god, Watson, look at what I've done to you! You cannot possibly be alright; no one would be." Watson fears he hears the touch of hysteria in his tone.

"No, Holmes," and he would go to him is he could find the strength. "Truly, I'll be fine. Holmes, it was an accident, you cannot blame yourself for…"

"An accident only through willful negligence! If I do not blame myself, then who? No, the blame lies with me. I, I..." his breath stutters, and he raises a trembling hand to his face, before he whispers, "I cannot do this." Turning, he is gone, and Watson is left with his whispers and his wounds, to wonder if anything he could have said would have made Holmes stay.

*

It is evening before Holmes reappears. Watson has made use of the time to clean himself up, and dispose of the worst of the shameful evidence, and worry. And worry and worry and worry. He was not lying to Holmes; most of the damage was merely cosmetic, and will fade over the span of a week. His leg has eased with some use, though his arm will need support, and the liquid sliding down his thighs proved to be pale semen, taken care of with a long bath. Two baths, actually. He has wrapped himself in one of Holmes' disreputable dressing gowns, and is half asleep in his chair when he hears the downstairs door open, hears a foot upon the stairs. He blinks away the shadows, and heart in his mouth, he calls out. "Holmes." The footsteps pause at the door, and before they can move on, he adds, "Please. Come talk to me."

Holmes enters, and advances slowly across the stretch of carpet, his face tilted and hidden by the brim of his hat. He hesitates at his chair and goes instead to the mantle, where he stands, unmoving, unspeaking. Watson cannot speak, his words a jumbled mess inside his head. Finally, he forces out, "You know we must speak of this."

"I do not know what there is speak of," Holmes responds, "I have found lodgings elsewhere, and will be gone in two days. You need never hear or see me again."

Watson cannot breathe, he _cannot_; "What?" he gasps, and "Why would you leave? Holmes, I don't-"

"I didn't feel I could ask you to give up your lodgings," his words running over Watson's, drowning them out with calmness. "I cannot imagine you would have any interest in being near me, and I cannot possibly blame you; I just came to get a few things and - "

"Holmes," and he is proud of how steady his voice is, when he feels that the whole world is crumbling beneath his feet. "Please. Look at me."

Holmes turns, and the firelight catches the blossom of blood on his face, ending the concealment of his new wounds. Watson's breath catches. "Holmes!" he cries, beginning to leaver himself up. Holmes takes two short strides to him, hands reaching for him; "No, don't get up, sit, please Watson, don't," and he is on his knees before him, concern etching his features. Watson leans forward and pulls off that dreadful hat; Holmes is a mess. His lip is split and still leaking blood, bruises already dark on his face, eyes bright and pupils blown wide. "Oh, Holmes," Watson says, and his hand comes up of its own accord to cup Holmes' chin, to turn him to the light; Holmes makes a small noise, staring at him.

"How," Holmes starts, and has to begin again, "How can you stand to touch me? You are, you are, still worried about me, _me_, after all I have done to you. How can your soul be so forgiving?"

Watson cannot answer him, cannot understand it himself; after everything he has experienced, he should be running as fast as he can in the other direction, but instead, "Holmes, what have you done to yourself? You idiot, what were you thinking? You cannot, cannot just disappear like that! Have you any idea how worried I was? I hadn't a clue where you'd gotten to, and you didn't tell anyone – for all I knew you were busy getting yourself killed!"

"Would that have been such a bad thing?"

He stares at Holmes, shocked. "Yes! Can you possible think I would be anything other than devastated at your death?" He closes his eyes, takes a long breath. His hand is hot against Holmes' chin. He opens his eyes, composure slightly regained. "There will be no more talk of you moving out."

"I'll not force you out." Holmes retorts, and Watson cuts him off quickly.

"No more talk of either of us moving out. Holmes." He gives in and slides his hand to Holmes' cheek, his other joining it to frame Holmes' face with careful fingers. "Holmes. _Think_. Before you continue to react, think for a moment. Deduce. I am still here, and I do not want either of us to move out. What does that say to you?"

Holmes regards him warily. "That you are mad."

He sighs. "What else, Holmes?"

"That you are ridiculously noble and trying to save me from myself again by putting yourself last."

"Or," Watson snaps back, "you have overlooked the most obvious of reasons. I do not want either of us moving out because I wish to be near you."

"Why?" a broken whisper of a word, a question, a plea.

"Holmes, how much do you remember of last night?"

He tries to turn his face away, stricken. "Too much."

"Then surely you can remember that my unwillingness was due to the fact you were not entirely yourself. That I did, in fact, let matters continue, rather than stopping them. "

"Just because you gave in out of a desire to minimize damages does not mean you enjoyed it."

"Holmes" he says, sharply, and then, gentler, "Holmes. While I cannot honestly say I enjoyed all of it, I did enjoy much of it, to my shame at the time. I would have rather our first experience of each other had happened under other circumstances, but I am not sorry that it happened. I may not yet be able to control my body's response to restraint, but even then I was," and he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, "was aroused. No, I do not wish to repeat that night; but I would not be at all adverse to repeating those activities. If perhaps in a slightly more restrained manner. Or perhaps I should say a slightly less restrained manner." Holmes stares at him, blankly, as though the words have not registered, still waiting for the blow to fall.

"Holmes," he pleads. "Please. I am telling you that I want you to fuck me again, and then I want to fuck you until you cannot walk straight, and then repeat. I want you to burn the memories of any other experience away. Can you understand that?" Holmes is shaking against his hands, and his eyes are suspiciously bright. "I am not saying this because I think it is best for you. I am not saying it because I feel sorry, or because I am afraid of what you will do, or because I am afraid you will leave otherwise, even though I am. I am saying that I want to be with you because I have always wanted to be with you, and will always want to be with you, and this does not change that. You are an idiot, but that doesn't mean I don't love you."

Holmes shatters at that, and he turns his wet face unto Watson's leg, whispering against the fabric, "Watson. Watson, Watson," and as soft as a breath, "John, John, John, oh John, I thought I had lost you completely, I thought you would hate the sight of me, I thought I would die if you looked at me with disgust." He clings to Watson, as though Watson his only anchor. "I am not whole without you, and I would have faded to nothing if you had left me, and I feared I could not have broken you more completely."

Watson threads a hand through his hair, lets Holmes weep himself out on his knee. They will fall asleep in the same bed, and wake in the same bed, and learn to trust one another's touch again, and never be parted from the other's company, and it will not be easy; none of it will be easy, but it will be easier than going alone.


End file.
